


if damage could have flesh

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Crimson Flower Spoilers, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Patricide, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violent Sparring, death fantasies used as pillow talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: When Felix and Jeritza spar for the first time since reuniting under the Black Eagles Strike Force, they discover that they share some similarities. This understanding kick-starts a relationship wherein both attempt to cope with their respective traumas the only way they know how: with violence and the promise of death.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Jeritza von Hrym
Comments: 20
Kudos: 104





	if damage could have flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for patricide, violent sparring, death fantasies used as pillow talk, and in general poor coping mechanisms. This fic also contains non-explicit sexual content, including consensual rough sex.

For nearly five years now, Felix has done his best to avoid looking at his reflection. When polishing his sword, he is careful to turn the blade so that the metal doesn’t catch his eyes and show them back to him. When walking the monastery grounds, he avoids the fishing pier and ignores all other reflective surfaces. When Sylvain talks to him, Felix always looks away, lest he see himself as the source of Sylvain’s overly concerned expression. 

Felix doesn’t want to look at himself, because he knows what he will see: the eyes of an animal, a wild beast who left his country and prince to carve his own path out of blood, violence, and death. 

He tries to face forward and accept this without deep self-reflection. He continues to fight and destroy in the name of a future he isn’t convinced will be worth all they have lost, because he refuses to look back and dwell on his past choices. He will not ruminate on loss or long for what could have been; he merely wants to wield his blade until the very end. 

And wield his blade he does — on the battlefield, but also off of it, spending most of his time on the training grounds, sparring with anyone who looks in his direction. 

Except Jeritza. Though Felix has asked him several times to show him his worth now that he can fight freely as the Death Knight, Jeritza has consistently refused, citing a promise to Edelgard to only fight their enemies until the war is won. Felix has wanted to go head-to-head with the Death Knight since the first moment he saw him wielding that ridiculous scythe, and that desire has only grown with each refusal. 

It isn’t until the professor returns that Felix finally gets his chance. Once they are back, Felix can see Jeritza’s bloodlust reignite. He notices the way his eyes follow them, the way those eyes fill with desire for a weapon, for a fight to the death. He recognizes it, because he knows he has seen that look on his own face. 

Which is why, after overhearing Jeritza declare his intent to one day kill the professor, Felix approaches him and says, “The professor has been asleep for five years, but I have not gone a day without wielding my sword. Fight me while you wait for them.” 

For the first time, Felix can see Jeritza’s expression flicker, interest momentarily taking hold before he returns to his languid passivity. “I must not give into temptation,” he drawls, looking off into the distance, likely in the direction where he expects the professor to be. 

“You must not give into the temptation to fight the professor,” Felix states, “but I can give you what you want.” 

Jeritza’s attention moves back to him. “I have seen you fight. You will not beat me.” 

Felix narrows his eyes, annoyed, but he attempts to keep his tone even. “You will not know that for certain until you fight me.” 

Jeritza allows a long moment of impassive silence to hang between them. Then, breaking it with a sigh, he finally gives in. “If you insist,” he says slowly, sounding bored. “I will not hold back.” 

“Neither will I.” Felix smiles now, eager for their match. Jeritza seems to recognize the rarity of the expression because he looks mildly surprised as he falls in step with him. 

They go to the training grounds, which happens to be empty, giving them full reign of the space. 

“Real weapons,” Jeritza tells him as he selects a silver sword from the rack. 

That’s more than fine with Felix, who rarely goes anywhere without his swords. He chooses his Sword of Zoltan from his belt, unsheathing it and holding it at the ready. 

Jeritza doesn’t afford him the courtesy of a bow or any other traditional sparring etiquette. The moment Felix has his weapon in hand and looks up, Jeritza is on him. 

Over the years that Felix has fought in Edelgard’s army, he has had many chances to see Jeritza in action — riding his black steed, wielding his scythe, calling out for blood and violence. This is no different. When Jeritza swings his blade in his first attack, eyes hard, body sweeping through a complex combat art that Felix recognizes just in time to effectively block, Felix knows that this is Jeritza reawakened as the Death Knight. This is the Jeritza that yearns for the professor’s blood on his sword. 

And he is giving that bloodlust to Felix. 

Felix grins in a way he hasn’t in years as he parries, deflecting Jeritza’s sword to the side. He quickly transitions into an attack of his own, feeling his crest activate as his sword glances across Jeritza’s abdomen. It slices a long rip into the fabric of his shirt, exposing skin. Jeritza doesn’t match his grin, but he does reflect his fervor when he counterattacks, his eyes hard and focused. 

They continue like this, back and forth, until Jeritza and Felix both are covered in superficial scratches and sore spots that will undoubtedly bruise by the morning. Still, neither of them let up, even as they gasp with exertion and their limbs ache in protest. For a long time, it seems as though they are too evenly matched to declare a victor. 

That is, until Felix missteps in his fatigue. He attempts an attack that he botches in its delivery. Jeritza dodges, then uses his momentum to knock Felix to the ground. Felix has to roll to avoid his follow-up attack and winds up on his stomach, his sword just out of reach. He tries to shove himself off the ground, but Jeritza tackles him, grabbing him from behind. He cups Felix's chin and holds up his head. 

“Look,” he murmurs, forcing Felix’s attention forward, where a silver shield is set against one of the training dummies. Felix finds himself staring into his reflection — truly looking into his own eyes for the first time in years. Jeritza lowers his body over Felix’s while maintaining the hold on his chin, so he, too, can look at the shield. His cheek touches Felix’s. “We are the same.” 

He’s right. Felix can see it in both their eyes: that same look he used to see on Dimitri. It is the hunger of a bloodthirsty animal, of a man turned dark and empty, of someone who thrives on killing. 

The grip on his chin tightens. Jeritza’s other hand still holds his blade. He moves it, as though to bring it to Felix’s throat, but Felix is faster. He raises his fist, forcefully striking backwards toward Jeritza’s face. He can feel the crunch of his nose as it makes contact. Jeritza releases his chin and Felix kicks out from under him, shoving Jeritza onto his back. He straddles him, pulls his second sword, and holds the edge of the blade to Jeritza’s throat. 

Jeritza’s eyes go wide. Blood leaks from his nose down his lip. “You...” he murmurs, his tone uncharacteristically emotional. “Could you be the one...to slay me?” 

Felix doesn’t move. The spar is over and he is the victor, so he _should_ move, but he is angry — furious at Jeritza for forcing him to see what he has been avoiding, for his dirty trick, for the way he invaded his space. He presses the blade into his throat, harder than he should, and a trickle of red blooms beneath the steel. 

Jeritza is still staring into Felix’s eyes. “I thought...only they who wield the Sword of the Creator…” He raises himself up on his elbows, pressing his neck into the blade, as though welcoming it. “But you...”’ 

Felix clenches his teeth as more blood leaks from Jeritza’s neck. “Shut up,” he warns, though he still does not move. 

Jeritza reaches for him, touches his cheek. “You,” he repeats. 

The tenderness in the gesture causes Felix to reel back, finally pulling his blade away from Jeritza’s throat and his body — now hot and uncomfortable, limbs quivering — away from Jeritza’s touch. “Don’t touch me,” he hisses as he stands. 

Jeritza doesn’t get to his feet, but he crawls toward Felix until he is on his knees before him. He reaches as though he will defy the instruction, but stops his hands short of making contact. “We will fight again,” he says, reverently, “After this war is over. And one of us will fall.” 

Felix turns away from his groveling. He feels as though he has been knocked off his center of gravity, his mind reeling uncomfortably, his emotions tangled up. “Go back to the professor,” he tells Jeritza as he turns his back on him. 

“The professor...doesn’t want to harm me,” Jeritza says slowly, mournfully. “But you would gladly kill me. I can see it in your eyes.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Felix tells him, but his voice lacks conviction, because Jeritza is right: he had felt tempted to do just that after being forced to see himself as he truly is, no better than the Death Knight that once terrorized students. 

“Felix,” Jeritza murmurs. It’s the first time he has used his name. 

Felix gathers his swords. 

“It will be you,” Jeritza calls. 

He leaves and refuses to look back. 

* * *

Felix would be content to avoid speaking with Jeritza for the rest of the war, if only to avoid the strangely longing glances that Jeritza has taken to casting his way, but he has no such reprieve. His sparring match with Jeritza seems to have awakened an interest in the man, and rather than giving Felix his space, he takes to following him around like a lost puppy. 

It wouldn’t be so frustrating if Jeritza’s attention were silent and unintrusive, but rather than keeping to himself, Jeritza often interjects himself into Felix’s routines and conversations without any sense of self-preservation. 

Once, while Felix was in the middle of sparring with Petra, in the process of parrying an attack, Jeritza walked up to him and asked him if he needed his weapons sharpened. Felix, momentarily distracted, mishandled the parry and ended up losing the match. He had turned his sword on Jeritza then, and threatened that if he ever bothered him during a sparring match again, he’d stab him, to which Jeritza had replied, “I would expect no less." 

After that, Jeritza had lain low for a few days, until Felix was in the middle of trying to get Bernadetta to share the secret behind her disarming maneuver. Just as Felix was attempting to ask her specifics, Jeritza interrupted to say, “Your abilities are far beyond hers. She has nothing to teach you.” He stared at Bernadetta, which of course chased her away, leaving Felix pissed off. That time, however, he knew better than to threaten Jeritza with violence. Instead, he said, “If you keep behaving this way, I will never fight you again.” It seemed to work, because Jeritza walked away looking defeated, his shoulders slumping. 

And now, just before the battle at Arianrhod, which Felix’s father is holding secure: Felix is sitting in the dining hall with Sylvain, who looks as sick over the next battle as Felix feels. They say little to each other, eating in silence, both well-aware that the only comfort they can offer is their presence. Despite the heavy air that hangs around them, keeping others away as they push food around on their plates, Jeritza walks up to their table and takes a seat across from Felix. In his hands is a dish filled with peach sorbet — more than one serving, by the looks of it — which he slides across the table. 

Felix and Sylvain both look at the sorbet, then look at Jeritza. 

“What are you doing?” Felix asks him. 

“This is for you,” Jeritza tells him solemnly. 

“I don’t eat sweets,” Felix replies. 

“You must,” Jeritza insists. “We go to battle tomorrow.” 

“What does that have to do with eating sweets?” Felix narrows his eyes. 

Sylvain watches this exchange in silence. 

“You cannot feast on blood, suffering, and death without eating sweets first,” Jeritza tells him, as though it is a sacred tradition before riding into battle. 

“That’s nonsense.” 

Jeritza looks crestfallen by his rejection. “The battle...will be difficult for you,” he murmurs, half to himself, but Felix still bristles, because Jeritza is overstepping his boundaries. 

“Shut up,” Felix tells him. “That’s not for you to speak of.” 

“Please eat,” Jeritza begs. “You need your strength.” 

Felix allows a stony silence to pass between them, during which he glares at Jeritza. Unfortunately, Jeritza doesn’t seem intimidated in the least. He doesn’t look away or choose to leave. 

With no other way of quickly ending this exchange, Felix relents. “I’ll eat this if you leave me alone.” 

Jeritza’s face relaxes and for a moment, he looks as though he might smile. He stands. “Until tomorrow.” 

As soon as Jeritza is gone, Felix passes the sorbet to Sylvain. 

“What was that about?” Sylvain asks him, accepting the free dessert. 

“Who knows,” Felix mutters. 

Sylvain dips a spoon into the sorbet and samples it. “He might be onto something. This is pretty good.” 

Felix gives him a withering look that imparts the importance of changing the subject. 

“Easy,” Sylvain says, putting up his free hand. He eats another spoonful and with a half-full mouth, says, “I could help, if you want. Getting rid of situations like that is kind of my specialty.” 

Now Felix has really lost his appetite. He shoves his plate to the side, no longer able to stomach the idea of food. “What do you mean, ‘situations like that’?” 

“You know,” Sylvain says with a wave of his hand. 

“I don’t,” Felix replies darkly, though he has a sense of what Sylvain is implying. 

“He wants something from you that you don’t want to give. I’m an expert in that field.” 

Felix stands in one quick, angry motion. “This is _nothing_ like that.” 

Sylvain’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he breathes. With a forced smile, he adds, “Sorry. I thought...” 

Felix leaves him to his stupid ideas. 

* * *

The battle is everything it shouldn’t be. For some reason, the professor leaves Felix to face off against his father. When his father attacks him with the Aura magic that he always wanted Felix learn, and which Felix always refused to practice, he nearly falters. But it’s Jeritza who is at his side, who urges him forward by saying, “You are better than him.” 

Then Felix thinks that Jeritza is right. He is better — he will not throw his life away for the boar the way that Rodrigue is doing. He will not be weakened by the symbolism of this moment. 

He will close his heart and run a blade through his father’s chest. Then he will think of nothing but this victory. 

Felix takes down his father, the ultimate demonstration of his alignment in this war, and Jeritza dismounts to steady him when his knees threaten to buckle. 

They continue onward — together. 

* * *

Back at the monastery, late at night, Felix lies in bed and forgets his determination. Remorse slips through his defenses. He thinks of the foolish man who sacrificed himself for a lost cause, who espoused the glory of pointless death. He thinks of the apology he always meant to give his father, the words now forever unspoken. He thinks — 

His dormitory door creaks open and in the dim candlelight, Felix can make out Jeritza’s tall form, which approaches the bed and then sits on the floor beside it. 

“Why are you here?” Felix asks, his voice failing to muster up the anger it usually holds. 

“I, too, killed my father,” Jeritza tells him. 

Felix can feel his chest tighten. Emotions he sought to kill along with his father and every other enemy that has met his blade are rekindled as what he has done is put to words. 

“I do not...I will not regret it. And yet...” 

“Don’t,” Felix warns. His voice loses strength. “Don’t say it.” 

Jeritza reaches out to him, as though to touch his cheek. His hand lingers in the air. “We are the same,” he murmurs. “I understand you.” 

Felix doesn’t want to be understood. He doesn’t want whatever this is supposed to be — comfort. Permission to be weak. He wants to harden himself to every feeling that isn’t his desire to wield his blade, and he wants to move on. 

But Jeritza’s hand comes to rest on his cheek and Felix’s determination falters just long enough that he allows it. 

“Sleep,” Jeritza tells him. 

It takes a long time, but eventually Felix does, with Jeritza guarding his bedside throughout the night. 

* * *

It becomes a nightly routine. 

Late at night, Jeritza slips into his room and takes his post on the floor. Felix never locks the door. Jeritza never asks for more. Felix doesn’t know when or if Jeritza sleeps. It is a strange solace, a means of distracting himself from the way his thoughts seem to loosen at night. 

Then, one night, Felix shifts to make room in the bed and Jeritza joins him. 

“Tell me,” Felix whispers, “how we will kill each other when all of this is done.” Felix has never harbored a death wish — he has never wanted to meet a pointless end, certainly not in service to another — but eventually his time will come, and he wants it to be in the heat of battle. He wants it to be with a sword in his hand, against a worthy enemy. 

Against someone like Death Knight, who will not turn away. 

In moments like this, late at night, with fresh memories on his mind, he thinks about his death — what it means and what it will put to rest. 

Jeritza leans in and whispers against his ear about how they will fight one final time — how they will match each other in strength and pain. He talks about steel-on-steel, the way they will tire together but continue to fight, long into the night, until they have nearly no strength remaining. He murmurs about the end, when they are both flagging, how they will each raise their swords and then, in the final moment, pierce each others hearts at the same time. “We will die,” Jeritza promises, “connected by our weapons.” 

Then Jeritza kisses him, and Felix can taste the sweetness of sorbet, the tang of blood, the sincerity of Jeritza’s words. The kiss is gentle, careful, in contrast to everything that they deserve, a direct contradiction to what Jeritza has just offered him. 

Felix deepens the kiss, urging Jeritza into giving him more, and then they’re moving against each other. Felix’s hand grabs Jeritza’s hair and Jeritza bites at his lip. Jeritza tries to push him back onto the bed, but Felix counters the move, shoving Jeritza to his back and straddling him. With a hand flat against his chest to keep him down, Felix leans in and speaks softly, threateningly, into Jeritza’s ear, “What if I kill you first?” 

Jeritza shudders beneath him. Felix can feel him growing hard, his hips bucking up into him. “Do it,” Jeritza begs as Felix moves his hand to his throat, fingers tracing his Adam's apple. 

Then Felix kisses him again, all tongue and hunger, and Jeritza whimpers for more — begs for what only Felix can give. 

When they fuck, Felix’s hands are rough, his touch unkind. He presses old bruises and creates new ones. He reopens once-healed wounds with his nails, the only weapons at his disposal. Jeritza whines and pleads as he insists on looking into his eyes. When he comes, he cries out Felix’s name as though it is precious on his tongue. Felix comes to the sight of Jeritza ravaged and spent, lips still moving as though in prayer. 

* * *

After that, Felix feels untouchable. He thinks not of the past, but of his future, with the one person who accepts his darkness. He fights alongside the Death Knight as though he is a living, breathing sword, and cuts through anyone in his way. Jeritza is always there, after, to look at Felix, instead of shying away from what he can see in his eyes. 

He prepares to face Dimitri without any remorse remaining in his heart. 

Before they head to the Tailtean Plains, Sylvain finds him on the training grounds and picks up a lance. “I thought you’d want to spar,” he says, when he means, _I’m here for your pain._

“Not with you,” Felix tells him, voice cold, shutting him out. Sylvain cannot carry his pain — he cannot accept the way Felix will wield his sword without holding back. He cannot look Felix in the eye when Felix loses himself to violence. 

“Aw, come on,” Sylvain fusses, trying to entice him. He wiggles the lance in his direction. 

Jeritza arrives and Felix turns away from Sylvain to spar with him instead. Sylvain watches in horrified silence until it is over — Felix limping, his side bloody and in need of healing, and Jeritza without the use of his sword arm. 

“What the fuck,” Sylvain whispers to Felix as Jeritza cleans up the weapons, pats away the blood. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Felix replies, watching Jeritza pause to wince before resuming his task. 

“You looked like you were trying to kill each other.” Sylvain’s tone is angry, but also scared. He’s worried about Felix, and Felix can’t stand hearing the concern in his voice. 

“We were,” is all he says, shoving past Sylvain to go in search of an elixir. 

Sylvain calls after him, but Felix won’t turn back. 

* * *

Later, after Felix has been healed, Mercedes asks him to walk with her. 

“I noticed that Emile has taken a liking to you,” she says amicably as they make their way to the Cathedral. 

“We fight well together,” Felix replies. 

“You do,” Mercedes agrees. “But I don’t only mean in battle.” 

“What do you mean, then?” Felix asks, wary of where this conversation will head. 

Mercedes is quiet for a moment, considering her words. “Emile has been through a lot,” she begins. “And you have, too. I’m worried about the two of you.” 

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Felix tells her, looking away. He notices Jeritza in the distance. The professor stands with him, trying to talk to him, but Jeritza won’t spare them a glance. 

“Sylvain is worried, too,” Mercedes presses. Her attention is on Felix, but she doesn’t see that he only has eyes for Jeritza. “He said you haven’t been yourself.” 

“This is war,” Felix replies without turning back to her. “We’ve all changed.” 

“So we have.” Mercedes sighs, a little sadly. “I told you once that you reminded me of my brother. That’s still true, now more than ever. All I want for you — both of you — is to be able to heal when this is all over.” 

Felix scoffs. “Is that even possible?” 

Mercedes touches his shoulder. With effort, he finally turns his attention away from Jeritza to look into her sincere, worried eyes. “Of course it is,” she tells him. “But you must try, first.” 

_How?_ is what immediately springs to Felix’s mind. How, when all he knows anymore is the lure of his sword, the thrill of taking a life? How, when Jeritza cannot truly separate himself from the Death Knight, when his whole existence is tied to his desire for death? 

But he doesn’t ask, because he knows that Mercedes has no real answers. 

* * *

That night, when Jeritza crawls into his bed, Felix asks, “Do you want me to be gentle?” 

He's never gentle with Jeritza. Every time they touch, they turn violent and desperate. They scratch and bite and shove until one of them gains the upper hand, and then the victor proceeds to wreck the other. They don’t understand how to be kind. 

But Felix thinks of what Mercedes said about trying, and he thinks about that first kiss, and he wonders if they have it all wrong. Maybe it needs to start here. Maybe they can learn to hold back. 

Jeritza is quiet for a long time. When he responds, his words are hesitant. “I don’t know if I would like that.” 

“We could try,” Felix offers him. 

“We could.” 

Felix fumbles over tenderness, his hands unfamiliar with being gentle after only being acquainted with violence for so long. But when he carefully brushes his fingers along Jeritza’s ribs, treating him as though he could shatter as he works his way downward, Jeritza gives himself to Felix in a way he hasn’t before — presents himself as shy and vulnerable. His eyes betray wonder, as though he cannot believe that Felix is capable of treasuring him, of taking his time and using his touch to show that he is precious, rather than ugly and only deserving of pain. 

When he comes, slowly, achingly, with a broken and wordless cry, tears threaten to fall from his eyes. He can’t bring himself to look at Felix. He looks, instead, at the ceiling as he tries to remember himself. 

“I liked that,” Jeritza eventually whispers, as though the confession cannot be overheard by the walls around them. “Did you?” 

It scares Felix. His hands shake in the aftermath. He doesn’t know if he can accept such careful affection in turn. 

He says nothing, so Jeritza takes him into his arms and promises, “We can go slow.” 

* * *

During the final battle, Jeritza nearly falls. Everyone is too busy fighting The Immaculate One to notice that he gets caught by its Aurora Breath, leaving him crumpled and barely breathing. Only Felix is watching him closely enough to see it happen — only Felix cares enough to run, hoist him down off of his horse, and drag him off to the side. 

“You can’t die here,” Felix tells him, trying to remember the small bit of healing magic he learned long ago, back when he was enrolled in the Academy. His hands glow and offer only the slightest amount of healing — only enough to stave off death. 

Jeritza moves in and out of consciousness, blinking up at Felix occasionally, then closing his eyes once more. Felix tries to heal him again. It takes immense effort and leaves him exhausted. 

He can hear the professor yelling from somewhere behind him, commanding him to use Thoron to attack The Immaculate One. Their words are drowned out by a deafening roar. Felix ignores them. 

”You said it would be me,” Felix whispers frantically, trying and failing to heal Jeritza again. 

Jeritza stirs long enough to cough out, “Only you.” 

Felix tries again. He musters a small amount of healing magic, then collapses on top of Jeritza, thinking about how the wars of men and beasts are fraught with devastation. He thinks about what all this brutality has cost him and Jeritza — how it has taught them both that they are no better than human weapons, that he is no better than the boar and Jeritza is no more than the Death Knight. He thinks that the professor is as bad as the rest of them, moving him and Jeritza around the battlefield like pawns, forcing them to fight even at the cost of their sanity. 

As unconsciousness claws its way through his mind, he tries again to heal Jeritza. Before he passes out, he decides he doesn’t want to lose the only person who understands. 

It’s Mercedes who saves them in the end. She hugs Felix as he comes to, thanking him for keeping her brother alive. Felix feels too tired to respond to her. He rides Jeritza’s horse back to camp and tries not to think about how something important has changed.

* * *

When the war is over, the fighting doesn’t end. 

It never does. 

“We cannot kill each other yet,” Jeritza tells him as Felix sharpens his sword with a whetstone, preparing for a siege on Those Who Slither in the Dark. 

“It’s for the best,” Felix replies, looking up from his blade. 

Jeritza looks heartbroken. “Our vow.” 

“I’ve never been big on vows,” Felix replies, setting down his sword and standing. 

“I need this,” Jeritza begs. 

Felix closes the distance between them. He reaches up, resting his hand on Jeritza’s cheek. “We can keep fighting instead.” 

“It isn’t enough.” Jeritza closes his eyes, looking pained, unwilling to see what Felix’s eyes offer him, knowing that they will not, in this moment, be the eyes of bloodthirsty beast. “It can’t be enough.” 

“Maybe it can be,” Felix suggests, “for a little while.” 

“For a little while,” Jeritza echoes slowly, trying to taste the words, to see if they will go down easy once he swallows them. 

“We can live until we get tired,” Felix says, even though he already feels tired — even though the war has already taken so much from them. 

He knows Jeritza is already tired too. He knows the Death Knight is impatient. 

Jeritza takes a deep breath. He opens his eyes. “We could try,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t sound convinced. 

“We can go slow,” Felix promises. 

Jeritza leans in and kisses Felix. Felix can taste the sweetness of sorbet, the tang of blood, the bitter hint of uncertainty. 

When Felix kisses him back, he is gentle, careful, kind. He pulls Jeritza close, and Jeritza’s arms circle him, holding him tightly. 

They are damaged and broken, far from whole, and when Felix considers what it is to _heal_ , he wants to turn away and embrace his darkness. He knows Jeritza is the same. 

But before they let go, maybe they can do as Mercedes suggested. Maybe they can try to live. 

Try to heal. 

Maybe they can figure it out together.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Carl Phillips' poem "Dearest Won":
> 
> it is all I have wanted: to lie hollowed
> 
> out, crowned, gifted, and as pale ... as  
> pale as — if damage could have flesh —  
> that flesh would be. In truth, regret, I
> 
> am like damage, be sure. I do not fail.


End file.
